Memorial Again
by Laluzi
Summary: Several years later, Corvo reminisces on the events that had brought him here. Contains spoilers.


Corvo Attano often found himself standing at the pavilion overlooking the sea.

It was a site that many found peaceful. The light fell prettily across the garden and the white stone of Dunwall Tower behind at all times of the day. The flowers were meticulously tended to, and a small menagerie of tame animals could sometimes be seen darting through the foliage. Far below, the waves rolled and crashed against the rocks, where gulls cried over the sea. A beautiful spot, many agreed, to pay their respects to the late Empress – although few came for that sole purpose, anymore.

He would never find it peaceful. Too much had happened here; he had _seen_ too much happen here. He had seen the sort of things a man could never forget. But like a sparrow to its nest, he always returned.

This was the closest he could be to her, now.

Sometimes, he thought about what he could have done differently. It was no good – he _knew_ that he couldn't move, could barely breathe, that he had been held down by a force beyond his reach. And regardless, he could not change the past. He could twist the flow of time with a word, even halt it in its tracks - but he could bend it no further backward than that. He had tried.

But he could not remember the scream of anguish that had ripped from his throat as he'd struggled, little Emily's fearful cry, the spray of blood, the fear and desperation in his Empress's eyes, the flat of the officer's blade against his skull, and _not_ second-guess himself. Some action he could have taken. If he'd only moved a little faster. If he'd spotted them sooner, if he'd been quicker on the draw, if he'd been _better_. If only he'd been better.

Other times, he was a little more peaceful, a little more centered. He would speak quietly to Jessamine about the city, her empire, her daughter. And sometimes he simply grieved.

He wasn't sure which of those today was going to be.

The sea echoed in his ears. It always did, now. It was… harder to focus than it had been once, when sometimes his world seemed edged with tones of purple-blue and shimmered in wavering light. Sometimes. Or perhaps the trauma was finally catching up with him. He could feel the lightless, rolling depths that loomed before him even now, populated with a million eyes and teeth and gleaming things he could not name. His brow creased as he forcefully cast his mind away like a fishing-hook, and the waves receded, just a little.

It landed in the past, of course. It always did.

Corvo was not a poetic man - or a man of many words at all - but the first time he'd seen the Empress, he'd been overwhelmed by a sense of something more than himself. He'd been assigned to her from Serkonos, as a gesture of friendship to Gristol; a bold gesture, but one gracefully taken; he had moved from Lord Cipriani's Royal Guard to Her Majesty's smoothly, no doubt a gesture of goodwill back. Of course, he'd been watched carefully, and Gristol's aristocracy had complained about it for a few months, but that was to be expected. He had nothing to hide, except perhaps a sense of disillusionment. At the time, he'd aspired to nothing more than serving to the best of his ability, and in doing so, bringing honor to Serkonos. It was not always been the easiest thing to do; with his rank, he had his own contingent of soldiers under his command, and he lost count of how many times he had to prove himself before they accepted a Serk as their commanding officer.

But the first time he'd seen her – his bow was not simply one of propriety. If anything, his years of training in courtly decorum might have failed him. She seemed otherworldly, above men, as she'd descended the steps, clad in subdued purple silks that skirted upon black. She held herself tall, confident; her gaze was pale and piercing. Those were eyes that melted secrets like ice. She did not look like a woman that needed protection, but he'd resolved to himself then and there to defend her with his life. Oaths and office were one thing, and he'd meant every word of the vows he'd taken as a Royal Guard, but this had been deeper than that.

The remnants of that promise hung about the air like ash, taunting him.

His life was not all bad. There had been a melancholy upon him for a long time, and before that, a resentment, but he had had his time in the sun. He had been born to a pair of Serkonan goatherds and risen to become Gristol's Royal Protector; an utterly unprecedented social climb in the history of the Empire of the Isles. And few men were lucky enough to be loved by an Empress, let alone Jessamine Kaldwin.

Coming in from Serkonos, the Empress had been the most regal thing he'd ever seen. It was only much later until he'd realized that she was the most beautiful, as well. Later, after an inside security breach had allowed Morley assassins to break into the tower's top level, cutting down the Royal Protector and half the palace guard. It had just so happened that he had been stationed at her door that day. He remembered the fear in her eyes as he slashed and parried to force them from her room, how _wrong_ it looked on her. He vowed in the blood of the assassins he slew that she would never have cause to fear again.

He was honored beyond measure when she came to personally thank him for his service, days later. They had talked - the Empress took a keen interest in his day-to-day affairs, and it was all he could do to avoid sounding like a fool. He could scarcely believe his ears two weeks after that - along with all of Gristol's nobility - when she appointed him the new Royal Protector.

The rank changed little for him; he would have laid down his life to protect her anyway. But Her Majesty had more time for the head of her military and personal bodyguard than she did a faceless guardsman. He treasured that time long before he knew he loved her, because it was time that he, in turn, got to see the real Empress, the person behind her untouchable regality. There, he met Jessamine Kaldwin; the young Empress, so much sharper and _alive_ than the delicate bloom the nobles saw her as. She was a sharp wit and a cunning navigator of the political scene. She had a soft spot for wolfhounds. She secretly hated formal gatherings. She tired of the rigid propriety she was constantly subjected to. She fretted over the welfare of her people - it was a topic that oft occupied her mind during what little free time she had. She worried that she was unworthy of her title. Corvo could not imagine a world where she was right.

He remembered the tentative jokes they'd made, the sympathetic ear they'd given each other whenever their stations became too much a burden, the warm smiles they shared, and then later, when they'd grown certain and daring and maybe a little defiant of propriety, the passionate nights? They had already broken trend with her appointing a Serkonan commoner as Royal Protector, they'd bantered – why not take the scandal a little further? Of course, those were brave words spoken only in each other's confidence. It was a rumor and nothing more, even after little Emily was born.

She was not so little now. The twenty-year old Empress had grown into her station better than anyone could have hoped for – Emily the Wise, they'd begun to call her. It was a title that would stick. She ruled with intelligence tempered by caution, something she'd likely learned from the many betrayals in her youth. It made his heart wrench to recall everything she had gone through, far too young, but the lessons had undeniably served her well later on. She was merciful and cared for her citizens, and even now, lingering parts of her childlike naïveté and compassion sometimes overcame decorum – or patience – when it came to navigating the more selfish issues brought by the nobles in court. Say what they may, but Emily had a keen mind for fairness, and wasn't afraid to breach tradition for it. She was growing into her beauty, too – the other Isles had begun to send suitors, to say nothing of Gristol's nobility. That, Corvo was less keen on. But the people loved her, and Corvo couldn't be more proud.

But she'd grown up without her mother.

Not for the first time, he thought of how everything had come to this. He'd scarcely believed it when he'd found the letter in his cell, fresh burns still screaming in pain; he had grimly resigned himself to death a long time before, and absurdly, his first thought was that it had to be a trap. As if goddamn Burrows didn't already have him exactly where he wanted him, the snake. But Jessamine's last wish had been that he'd save Emily, and then he'd felt ashamed that he'd even considered ignoring it. If there was even a sliver of a possibility that he could save his daughter, he would have risked far more to seize the chance.

The way hadn't been easy. The Loyalists who had saved him from his execution – even now, he was still thankful. Without that, none of this would have happened. Dunwall would still be rotting under Burrows' tyranny. Emily would be an orphan and puppet on the throne, the Empress of a dying nation that was barely hers. Even with his intervention, Admiral Havelock had meant well, before. Good intentions had held firm against adversity from their foes, but the promise of power had proved the group's undoing. And so more innocents had died, and he'd had to rescue Emily from the grip of a tyrant a second time.

Emily had saved him in turn; she was the tether that had kept him sane, held him tight on the edge of the brink. Six months was a long time for his resentment to fester, branded raw and bleeding every time he'd been dragged to the Coldridge torture room. And sometimes, he had stared down from the rooftops at the city watch that hunted him, reviled him, and then to the Mark on his hand, and wondered, perhaps, what it would be like to dash them against the brickwork with a gale of wind. His fingers twitched with the ease it would take to summon a swarm of hungry rats – rats, like the ones who had crawled into his cell and brushed against his feet, his knees, stole his scant meals, beady eyes gleaming, but multiplied a hundredfold – and set them upon those who had locked him there, to watch them scream and panic and be gnawed down to bones. He had stared down idly at a guard, the waves swirling in his ears, and wondered what it would be like to shove his blade through his sternum. He might twist it like so, and watch the man's eyes bulge out, or perhaps he'd jab here, or there… The torturer had taught him much of anatomy, and of pain. Or he could simply yank the blade out – Piero's craftsmanship was too good for this filth – and hurry on, leaving a worthless body to bleed out on the cobbles.

But Emily – he would not become her monster. He had always been her father, even if only he and Jessamine had known how true it truly was; he would lead by example. He would not strike down good Gristol men that were only doing their jobs, as much as the rage inside him seethed. He had kept his hate and caged it, saving it for those responsible – and when it came to them, well, death was too simple a way to ruin them. He would not make them martyrs. Those were the ones that he made to suffer. And suffer they had.

And then he'd come back to the Hound Pits Pub – home, he'd tentatively begun to think of it after so many long months in a cell, until Havelock and Martin and Pendleton had toasted him with false smiles and a poisoned glass – he'd come back to the pub and find a drawing, or a letter, or Emily herself, radiant in the rough tatters of his attic room. She'd run to his arms and they'd embrace, and she'd tell him about her lessons with Callista and the Admiral's stories, and how much she'd missed him, and that coiled resentment in his heart would burn away like dew in her warmth. His daughter, his perfect little Empress.

So he branded the High Overseer a heretic. It was not mercy, but neither was it the rage that threatened to consume him at times. He brokered a deal with Slackjaw that had the Pendleton brothers stripped of their identities and carted off to the same silver mines that had made them rich. He kidnapped Anton Sokolov from his own laboratory (to his credit, the man took it with good enough grace). He'd given over Lydia Boyle to an unrequited lover. He'd stolen Hiram Burrows' crazed confession and aired it over the city's loudspeakers. Daud… had been harder, but in the end, the man had changed; he was sick with remorse and wanted nothing more than to die. The man who had killed the Empress just to prove he could was already dead. And Havelock – he'd had no time to mete out justice for the power-mad Admiral, not with Emily so close.

When the guards had rushed the lighthouse, they'd found Corvo Attano on his knees, a skeletal mask discarded beside at his side, rough fingers twining the young Empress's hair into braids. They might have killed him anyway, were it not for her pleas for them to stop.

He'd found himself hauled to Coldridge again, but his stay this time was far shorter and entirely painless. It was a precaution more than a threat – they were confused enough to find Lord Regent Havelock knocked unconscious, and both High Overseer Martin and Lord Pendleton poisoned, slumped dead in their seats. (Many times did Corvo wonder what they might have said to him, if Havelock hadn't taken away that chance. Did they regret what they had done, or did they take their pride right to their graves?) There were no witnesses save for Emily, and the trail of unconscious soldiers found up the way to the lighthouse, carefully stashed away from the precarious rails, did not speak of the mad killer that he'd been branded as. He was imprisoned in Coldridge for less than a week before they returned for him, this time to ask him his own version of events. And he'd told them.

He'd learned only later that Havelock, surprisingly, had confirmed these claims. He wasn't sure if it was the other man's idea of penance, or if he'd simply known that the game was up and there was no more point in lies. Unfortunately, he'd never gotten the chance to ask; the Admiral met his end at the gallows before he was let out of custody.

It was a while before he was able to resume the military duties of Lord Protector. Of course, there had been an interregnum anyway, where his innocence was proven against the propaganda hammered into the collective public mind. Emily had been insistent in his defense, but she was young, many had argued, and could have been too confused and distraught to accept what she was seeing. In the end, it had been Lord Regent Burrows' contract that had saved him; they found it where Corvo had left it in the safe. There had been a brief manhunt for Daud after that, but Corvo had known that it would turn up nothing. Daud still had his own future to carve, for better or worse, and he was a man that was _very_ good at disappearing.

The time surrounding his reinstatement to Lord Protector was a blur. There had been many announcements, and formal apologies, and dinners held in his honor by the same simpering nobles that fawned over the new Lord Regent months ago. His brow twitched, briefly – the delicate formalities of high court had never been his favorite part of the job. The citizenry itself barely remembered how to feel surprise at that point, what with the number of outlandish announcements the loudspeakers had been blaring for the past weeks. Even so, absolution was not immediate. It took a long time for his certain guilt to fade from the public mind – citizenry, military, and nobles alike.

But it had been much longer still before Corvo had trained himself not to flinch at the sight of his men, to dive for cover or choke them to silence.

It had not been the easiest of jobs. He glanced down at his hands. Gloved; he always wore gloves now, but he imagined he could see the trace of dark lines beneath. Hiding the fact that one bore the Outsider's Mark from the Abbey was not the easiest of things for such a prominent figure as he. So were his unexplained disappearances, when he felt the need to rush across the rooftops – sometimes vanishing from space to space in a flash of nothingness – to remember what he had done, when he was desperate for anything to _feel_, to reaffirm that life still ran through his veins. And the clawing sense that he wasn't good enough, that he'd _failed_ – he knew that would never leave him.

The memorial before him was a testament to that.

But time passed, as it was wont to do. And now he was here.

Jessamine was still gone, and so was a part of him. He'd thought, once, back in the days where he wore an assassin's mask and cloaked himself in shadows and stolen flesh, that saving Emily would make him whole again. That if he could fix things, if his name was cleared and Emily sat upon the throne and he wore the navy buttoned uniform of Lord Protector again, that maybe that would fill the hole in his heart.

Maybe he had been right – maybe fixing things would have healed him. But he'd been wrong about what he could fix. Times were peaceful. His daughter was a wise ruler, loved every bit as her mother was in her too-short reign, and Dunwall was recovering – spearheaded by Piero and Sokolov's panacea, but carried with the aid of her programs and treaties to the other isles. And he was proud of her, he truly was. Perhaps his laughter was more tired than she'd known in her childhood; perhaps his smiles no longer reached his eyes, but they were still every bit as genuine.

But Jessamine had not lived to see her daughter bloom. They had been three, and now they were two. And without the burning rage at his daughter's confinement, without the purpose of hunting those who'd steered Dunwall to its demise, without the injustice and anger and the primal need to survive in a world where everyone was out for his blood – he could feel the emptiness inside, throbbing like the beat of a heart.

He'd been feeling empty for a long time.

"This again, Corvo?"

He did not need to turn to know who it was – more likely than not, there would be nobody to see. But he knew better than to think he had imagined it. A sound like the rasp of waves on the shore, far too close. A faint smell of brine. A cool trace upon the back of his left hand. And that voice, rich and smooth as syrup, laced with amusement that was sharper than the edge of the blade at his side.

"This moping doesn't suit you, now."

Once, he might have been defiant, the Abbey's teachings warring against the undeniable usefulness of his then-newfound powers. Once, a little after the usefulness had won out, he might have been wary of the god that held every possibility of his life and twisted them about his fingers like an interesting curio. And once, long after he had grown used to it, long after the dusts in his life had settled, he would have been resentful of the Outsider's continued stirring of old wounds. Now… now he was none of those things, because these days, it seemed like those old wounds were more real than anything in the present. Time held no meaning in the Void, after all.

Corvo dipped his head in acknowledgement, but said nothing. What else was there to say?

"It has been ten years, three months, sixteen days, five hours, two minutes, and thirty-six seconds," the Outsider continued, "since Empress Jessamine Kaldwin the First passed from your world to mine. Nine years, nine months, twenty-four days, forty-eight minutes, and three seconds, when you lifted the key to your prison cell and chose to thwart death. And you mourn her just as much as you did then."

"I will always mourn her," Corvo said softly, fingers grazing the gold filigree in front of him. And he knew it was reckless to speak such to a being who knew the meaning of _always_ far better than he ever would, who would look into the knotted thread of his life and see a thousand Corvos who would mourn Jessamine to his grave and a thousand who would not, and perhaps, even, a Corvo who had never had to watch her die in his arms–

But that Corvo had never been. He was what his choices had made him, the Outsider had taught him that much – and if there had been a choice he could have made to save her, he had chosen wrong.

"Even if it causes you pain?" Now he sounded almost curious. "You cannot bring her back, Corvo. You know this serves no purpose."

He stood from his kneel and turned around. Sure enough, the speaker was leaning against one of the gazebo's marble pillars. The Outsider had many forms, but he had always appeared to Corvo as a young man; one with a brown overcoat, seaman's trousers, and short, dark hair. He looked so normal, so human, until one met his eyes.

"I could make you forget." The Outsider twirled his fingers idly. "Make you move on. Drive you back to Dunwall's heart, away from this corroded life in ivory."

The Lord Protector's head snapped up, even as the sea swirled in his ears. The alarm was clear in his eyes, but to his credit, his voice was composed enough when he managed to speak.

"I would not be myself I did."

The Outsider peered down at him, one eyebrow raised. "You will always be Corvo Attano, no matter what choices you make. There has always been a sizable knot of possibilities around you, one I delight in watching unravel. There are thousands of Corvos that could have been, that almost were, that would have been you if only for a moment's indecision or a second's resolve. There are many of them that you would not recognize."

Corvo struggled to keep his voice even. Punching the Outsider in the face was not a good idea, although sometimes he wondered if the god were trying to goad him into it. "If I ever had control of my choices, then I choose to protect my daughter, and I choose to love Jessamine Kaldwin. Were it that I could do more for them, I would."

The Outsider smirked, perhaps to some private joke. "Whenever I bestow gifts to mortals, I make myself clear that I do so without compunction. I do not tie constraints or terms to my powers – you are all free to live your lives exactly as you wish. And yet so many feel the need to blindly heed with my suggestions, simply because it was I who spoke them. It's quite bland, really. I always remember the ones that tell me to my face to let them be." He shrugged, although his fathomless, almost catlike eyes were as appraising as ever. "It was not an offer anyway. You've simply been too fascinating to break like that."

Corvo shifted, an accusation on his lips, but he held his tongue as the Outsider continued. "Even now, the choices you've made continue to ripple out." He folded his arms. "Have you ever considered what might have happened if you had been… less? If you had given in to the primal need for revenge and simply killed Burrows, immortalizing him as a brave man trapped in a terrible situation? Have you ever considered the closure it would have brought you?" His lips quirked into something too mild and too terrible to be called a smile. "Do you ever think of Lydia Boyle, spared by the quality of your mercy – trapped by an obsession that she will never return, a princess wasting away in her tower? It has been years since she last played." Corvo's teeth clenched. "Do you ever think of those who plot against the throne, the ones who might have been silenced if only you'd shown a little less restraint?"

He leaned back, fingers splayed, watching the Lord Protector's agitated silence with interest.

"Would you have done anything differently, if you had the chance?"

Still no answer. The Outsider's mouth curved further upwards.

"You've been stationary for a while now. A well-earned break. You played your part most admirably; better than even I could have hoped for." He leaned forward, spreading his arms. "But it's not yet your time. A tip – oh, don't give me that look, Corvo. You know that I do not lie. Think of it for… old times' sake. Keep an eye on your Empress. Things are about to get… interesting."

Corvo tensed. What the Outsider considered _interesting_ rarely meant well for the pieces on his immortal chessboard. "What kind of interesting?" he asked cautiously.

A tut, like a schoolteacher's gentle chastisement. "Now, Corvo, you know that would be too easy." Corvo's lips pursed; he hadn't been expecting an answer anyway. The Outsider would give as much as he wanted and nothing more. "Simply know that your conviction to your own moral code was what allowed this to happen. What will you do, I wonder?"

The Lord Protector turned away, facing the memorial. Ten years ago, this site had become his lover's grave. But he still had more to lose. He still had another to hold close.

One hand came down to rest upon the flat of his sword.

"What I always have," he said.

And the Outsider smiled, as his form began to drift like smoke. His teeth were almost as bright as the blackness of his eyes.

"I'll be waiting."


End file.
